Chapter 315 : Chapter 315

Chapter 315. The Simov Incident

When ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍the nobles who had not yet fully breathed their last heard those words, their eyes filled with despair.

They ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍had never dreamed that the “perfect puppet” they had carefully chosen, the one they thought they could manipulate at will, was actually the god of death who had personally brought down the butcher’s blade.

Old ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍Grand Duke Grahaed was half-kneeling on the floor.

He ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍was the only person present who could still barely hold on.

The ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍powerful constitution of a Sixth-Tier Knight allowed him to survive a few more minutes under the poison’s corrosion.

He ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍vomited mouthfuls of black blood, his entire body trembling.

“You are insane...” Grahaed growled in a low voice.

He stared fixedly at the mastermind behind everything on the high platform.

“Do you know how many of these people are important ministers holding key positions in the court? If you slaughter the kingdom’s core nobles in a single night, the entire administrative system will be paralyzed!”

“The Royal Capital will fall into unprecedented turmoil! You are personally destroying Astrelia!”

Dorg did not turn back.

“Break it down, then rebuild it.” Dorg looked at the endless gloomy rain outside the window.

“Sylvia will take over a clean kingdom.”

Grahaed’s eyes suddenly widened.

“Then do you think the Western Territory will obediently listen after you kill me?!”

The old grand duke furiously slapped the floor. Spiderweb-like cracks spread across the stone tiles.

His eyes were scarlet, like a cornered beast making its final struggle.

“Do not forget! Before I left, I already handed the military authority of the Western Territory entirely to my eldest son, Kashido!”

He coughed blood while laughing madly.

“Once Kashido learns that I died by your hand, the Grahaed Family will raise the banner of rebellion! The Western Territory’s army of tens of thousands will immediately turn its weapons toward the Royal Capital!”

“When the Thunder Gorge defensive line collapses, Valeria’s battle mage corps will advance without obstruction! You are making all of Astrelia accompany you to the grave!”

Dorg turned around.

He walked back to the high-backed chair and sat down, leisurely brushing the collar of his silk sleeping robe.

Facing Old Grand Duke Grahaed’s hysterical, deadly threat, he remained unhurried and calmly threw out a bombshell.

“The Western Territory will not fall into chaos,” Dorg said calmly.

Grahaed’s laughter stopped abruptly.

“Because your second son, Simov, has long since made preparations for this.” Dorg looked at him, his eyes icy.

Grahaed felt as though he had been struck by lightning.

At that moment, the poison and extreme terror erupted at the same time, completely destroying his nerves.

Simov.

The second son he had always marginalized, the one he had regarded as gloomy in temperament and unfit for great responsibility. That illegitimate son who was not even worthy of sitting at the table for meals.

A horrifying guess instantly occupied his mind.

“My... my eldest son...” Grahaed’s voice was hoarse as he asked the question he cared about most.

That eldest son into whom he had poured all his effort, whom he had raised as his successor.

Dorg looked at him and said nothing.

That instant of silence gave Grahaed the cruelest answer.

“Ah—!” Grahaed let out a shrill, miserable laugh.

...

Not long ago, thousands of miles away, at the Duke’s Manor in the Western Territory.

Late at night. The rain poured down in torrents.

Fierce winds swept the rain against the enormous stained-glass windows of the duke’s manor, producing dense cracking sounds.

The manor, usually quiet and solemn, was now filled with the bloody stench of rust.

Grahaed’s second son, Simov, strode through the courtyard in a suit of black, close-fitting leather armor.

Cold rainwater slid down his sharply defined jaw. He held a standard longsword in his hand, its tip slanting toward the ground.

The blood on the blade had just been washed clean by the rain, only to be quickly covered again by newly spattered warm blood.

In the courtyard behind him, three hundred deathsworn warriors secretly trained with the First Prince’s covert support were carrying out a one-sided slaughter.

The personal guards loyal only to the grand duke and his eldest son did not even have time to put on their armor before their throats were cleanly slit in their sleep. Blood mixed with rainwater, dyeing the flat stone path of the courtyard a glaring dark red.

Simov raised his hand and wiped the rainwater from his face.

His eyes were very much like a venomous snake in a dense forest—just like the family crest passed down through the generations of the Grahaed Family.

He silently murmured in his heart.

Father, the relationship between us could hardly be called harmonious.

After all, I am only the son of a lowly concubine. In your eyes, I cannot compare to even a single strand of Kashido’s hair.

But there is one thing you said that was absolutely right, and I have always engraved it firmly in my heart.

The one who survives is the winner!

A deathsworn leader stepped quickly through the bloody water.

“Second Young Master, the first madam has already been placed under house arrest in the Eastern Tower. All resisting guards have been cleared out.”

Simov nodded. “Watch her closely. No one is allowed to visit her. Send in three meals a day. As long as she does not starve to death, that is enough. While she is alive, she still has some use.”

He carried his longsword and walked toward the second floor of the main building. That was his elder brother’s bedroom. Several corpses lay scattered across the corridor.

They were his elder brother’s most elite personal guards. The deathsworn warriors were finishing them off one by one.

Simov walked to the carved oak door. He did not knock. He raised his foot and kicked the door hard.

The wooden door collapsed with a crash and struck the carpet with a dull thud.

Inside the bedroom, his elder brother, the one raised as the heir, was standing barefoot beside the bed.

His elder brother held a self-defense dagger in his hand. His entire body was trembling, and his face was deathly pale.

“Simov! Are you trying to rebel?!” Kashido roared with more bluster than courage, his voice cracking. “I am your elder brother! I am the future duke of the Western Territory! Father will never let you off when he comes back!”

Simov wasted no words.

“Father will not be coming back.” Simov’s tone was terrifyingly calm.

Kashido froze, his pupils contracting violently.

In the half second that he was stunned, Simov strode forward. The longsword in his hand instantly turned into a dazzling flash of silver light.

The dagger in Kashido’s hand did not even have time to rise before he felt a faint chill at his neck.

Immediately afterward, a scalding pillar of blood shot into the air. Kashido’s vision began to spin wildly. As heaven and earth overturned, he saw his own headless body collapse stiffly to the floor.

Simov’s gaze passed over the headless corpse on the floor and landed precisely on a sword hanging at the head of the bed.

It was the “Serpent Sword,” its hilt carved with a two-headed serpent—the token passed down through the generations of the Grahaed Family, and even more so the symbol of absolute military authority over the Western Territory’s army of tens of thousands.

Simov took a deep breath and calmed the heart pounding violently inside his chest. He strode to the bedside and reached out to take down the Serpent Sword.

His palm gripped the hilt tightly.

The cold sensation of the two-headed serpent pattern came through his palm, yet it made Simov’s blood boil completely.

Only with it could he truly control the situation.

“Clean everything up. Do not leave any flaws behind. Seal off the Duke’s Manor completely. Before dawn, not even a fly is allowed to get out!” Simov coldly ordered the deathsworn leader.

Afterward, he carefully wiped the blood from his hands with a cloth, straightened his disheveled collar, and hung the Serpent Sword firmly at his waist.

He did not remain in the manor for even a single second. Instead, he immediately gathered over a dozen absolutely loyal deathsworn warriors and plunged into the storm.

Mounting a warhorse draped in heavy armor, Simov fiercely squeezed the horse’s sides.

“Hyah!”

The warhorse neighed. The group shot toward the Western Territory Military Headquarters Camp outside the city like black arrows loosed from a bowstring.

Their hooves shattered puddles, splashing mud half as high as a man.

He had to use this fatal window of time to complete the First Prince’s commission before anyone realized Kashido was dead!